


Boats Against The Current

by AssassinOfRome



Category: Smash (TV)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Spoilers for the Great Gatsby I guess, Tom Levitt needs a hug, Tom deserves better 2k19, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 11:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18248708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssassinOfRome/pseuds/AssassinOfRome
Summary: Gatsby is like a dream come true.You’ve never been this inspired; the words just flow from your hands. Every time you glance at the text, new ideas come swirling in. The cast too is magnetic. Ivy is a breath-taking Daisy, cold and soft in equal measure, and glowing in the light. Her chemistry with Sam Strickland’s Nick is electric; you half wonder if you should have cast him as Gatsby, but his narration is simply too good to pass up. The surprise star though is Ana Vargas as Myrtle – Derek had recommended her from her time at Hit List, and she steals all her scenes, smouldering and vulnerable. Her final number is one of your favourites.Well, it would be, if Tom would finish writing the damn thing.Tom has a hard time coping with Gatsby.





	Boats Against The Current

Gatsby is like a dream come true. 

You’ve never been this inspired; the words just flow from your hands. Every time you glance at the text, new ideas come swirling in. The cast too is magnetic. Ivy is a breath-taking Daisy, cold and soft in equal measure, and glowing in the light. Her chemistry with Sam Strickland’s Nick is electric; you half wonder if you should have cast him as Gatsby, but his narration is simply too good to pass up. The surprise star though is Ana Vargas as Myrtle – Derek had recommended her from her time at Hit List, and she steals all her scenes, smouldering and vulnerable. Her final number is one of your favourites. 

Well, it would be, if Tom would finish writing the damn thing. 

He’s been hogging it all week, and with only a fortnight until the workshop opens, everyone’s tetchy. Derek’s comments are getting snider, but Tom won’t budge. Whenever you asks to hear them, he begs for one most adjustment, another run-through, a bit more time. But based on the melodies you hear running through the apartment at three in the morning when you’d rather be dreaming, the song is unravelling. Tom barely plays more than the first four bars before stopping, and if you have to hear those opening notes one more time, you’re going to scream. 

So you do the only rational thing and steal the sheet music from the piano while he’s in the shower and hand it over to Derek. 

By the time you hit rehearsal, he’s got the whole scene set up. It looks perfect. Ana is lounging against the gas-pump, and you can just picture the ragged dress, the unravelling curls, the smudged make up. You want to admire it for a moment longer, but you feel Tom’s hand grab yours. 

“What is this?” His tone is short, one you’ve not heard since the bad days of Bombshell. He’s not quite glaring at the stage, but there’s something in his expression that you can’t read. 

“Welcome to Dead Lights.” Derek turns in his chair and smirks. You step forward to join him and he reaches out to kiss your hand. Tom’s expression darkens. 

“No-how-how did you get this?” His eyes fix on you, and you feel the first squirms of guilt. But he’s always been a perfectionist and the show can’t wait on him to be satisfied. You shrug. 

“We need to see it, Tom.” You take your seat and invite him to take his. “Come on, you’ll love it. I’m sure Derek’s done great things.” 

“It’s not finished.” He insists, twisting the strap of his bag. You wonder if he’s going to start stamping his foot in a second. He’s always had a hint of the diva about him, but you didn’t think it would come out now.

“Sit down or leave, Levitt; I’m staging this number whether you like it or not.” Derek drawls, turning to the stage. “Maybe if you stick around, you might even find it in your heart to be grateful to me for finishing it off for you.” 

“You can’t!” You freeze, Derek freezes, Hell itself freezes. You feel yourself bristle; it’s a good scene, one of your best. Is Tom just angry that you’re outshining him for once? You fold your arms and focus on the actors, who are huddled together, gossiping. 

“If you don’t like the Myrtle scene, that’s your own business. But I want to see it before we make any changes. Now are you going to tell me what’s wrong with it, or are you going to keep dicking about?” 

“It’s-“ Tom takes a deep breath, and bites his lip, before shaking his head. “It’s nothing. It’s good. We should run it after lunch.” 

“We’re running it now.” Derek commands, and waves to the cast. “Come on! This is a musical, not a school playing field – get into place.” 

As they disperse, Tom flops down into his seat, dropping his bag with an audible thump. He stares straight ahead, shoulders tense under his jacket. 

If he’s going to sulk, so be it. 

The lights dim and the scene begins to play. It works perfectly; Derek’s idea of how to perform the cars works brilliantly, and when George Wilson starts screaming at his wife, you flinch. The eyes of Doctor T J Eckleberg are as cold as Tom’s and hover over the scene, glaring out at the audience. 

And of course, Ana is excellent. There’s a fire to her, a swan song in motion. When she sings the reprise of Wanting, you shift onto the edge of your seat. Ana steps forward onto the stage, looking straight ahead as the car hurtles towards her. She turns at the last second, the joy lighting up her face as she catches sight of her beloved. Ana lets the note rise higher and higher as she darts across the stage then-

BAM!

The lights flash, the stage seemed to shake, and Ana switches her soprano into a blood-curdling scream. You feel Tom jolt in his chair, his papers falling to the floor. 

Slowly, the house lights come up and the cast sit silent. Shocked. Slowly the applause trickles in, and you get to your feet, preparing to cheer. You turn back to beam at Tom – really, the song was a masterpiece; you weren’t sure what he was worrying about – only to see that he is still seated, eyes fixed in front of him. Derek turns in his seat, but his smug grin drops away as he catches sight of Tom’s expression. 

Before anyone can speak, Tom pushes his chair back and runs, his footsteps hammering against the floor. The door slams behind him, stopping the applause. Ana frowns down at you, wringing her hands. 

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No, sweetheart, you were perfect.” You turn back to Tom’s empty chair. Sheet music is everywhere. “What is the matter with him?” 

“He didn’t look well, Julia.” You freeze and turn to Derek, who looks uncharacteristically anxious. You can count on your left hand the amount of times you’ve seen him this worried about something, and you wouldn’t even need a finger to count all the times it’s been about Tom. You meet his eye for a second, and nod. You’re out of the room almost as quickly as Tom was. 

You half-expect him to be leaning against the wall or pacing up and down: his habit when irritated. But there’s no movement, no sound. No Tom. You glance around frantically - he couldn’t have gotten far without his bag – when you hear faint retching. You follow the sound to the unisex toilet at the end of the corridor, and knock lightly on the door. 

“Tom? Is that you?” 

“Go away.” He moans, and heaves again. You wince at the sound. Tom rarely gets sick; he’s one of those lucky bastards who never gets more than a headache when hungover, and he hasn’t had a stomach bug since the late 90s. Usually, you would leave him be, but when his retches turn to coughs so bad you think he’s choking, you test the handle of the door. It’s not locked, and opens slightly. 

“Tom, sweetie, I’m going to come in now.” He doesn’t respond, so you push again. The door swings open, and you catch sight of him curled in a ball next to the toilet. 

He looks awful, pale as his shirt and soaked in sweat. His hair sticks to his forehead, and even from a distance you can tell he’s trembling. He tries to sit up when you enter, but his arm buckles underneath him and he falls back down. He just about manages not to hit his head, but whines anyway, squeezing his eyes shut. You kneel down next to him, and press a hand to his forehead. No fever, but your palm comes away damp. 

“Migraine?” You whisper to him, but even that makes him flinch. It’s the only thing he tends to suffer from; if he pulls too many late nights or has too much caffeine, his vision will blur into nothing and he’ll be bedridden for the next few days. He refuses to acknowledge they’re a stress thing. But his open eyes seem to suggest no headache, and he shakes his head. For the first time, you see the tears welling up and spilling down his cheeks. You scoop him into a hug. He collapses against you. 

“Kyle.” 

It’s all he says, but the name still hits you like a punch in the gut. You sag, and Tom does the same, pressing his face into your shoulder. His shoulders start to shake, and you wrap your arms around him, clinging tight. 

He doesn’t talk about Kyle, and it’s become an unwritten rule that no-one asks. The boy’s Tony award is at every rehearsal; Jimmy asked Tom to take care of it while he was away, and Tom put it on top of the piano, pride of place. Sometimes Tom will spin the disc when he’s thinking, but that’s the limit to his interaction with it on a daily basis. You should have known something was different when he moved it. These past few days he’s held it almost constantly, passing it from hand to hand like a baseball. But you don’t ask. Because no-one asks. 

“I’m sorry.” You don’t quite know what you’re apologising for. Not consulting him on the song? Not asking how he was coping? Not realising how much he’d lost? You try to tell him all those things but the words won’t emerge. Instead a sob bubbles up in your throat and it’s all you can do to keep holding him. 

“I can’t stop thinking about him. Every time I sit at the piano, it’s him. I can’t play, Julia.” He lifts his head just a little, and you notice the heavy bags under his eyes, purple in the half-light. “I can’t sleep.” 

“I’m taking you home.” It’s all you can think to say, and you know it won’t fix a damn thing, but that doesn’t mean you’re not willing to try. Tom swallows, and you can see the longing in his eyes, but he shakes his head. 

“The rehearsal – we can’t –“ 

“Derek can survive one day without us.” You regret saying it – what if Tom needs longer? If he’s this shaken up, he could need weeks. But you stick with it, and wrap you arms around his waist. “Can you stand?” 

He manages it eventually, but he’s wobbly. You half carry him through the corridor, but he’s strong enough to walk through the auditorium on his own. Everyone turns to stare. 

“We’re done for the day.” Derek looks up, but one glance at Tom’s face stops any comment. He instead nods, and turns to the cast. You reach down and hand Tom his bag.   
Someone had scooped up the sheet music, tucking it inside; you know he’s not himself as he doesn’t immediate start to re-arrange it. Instead, he leans against the seats and looks down at his shoes. 

The cast murmurs, but Ivy quietens them with a single look. She nods towards Tom, concern clear, but you shake your head. Now is not the time to start spreading gossip, even though you’re sure Ivy wouldn’t say a word if she knew what was happening. 

You head to the table to grab your binder and feel Derek’s hand around your wrist. He doesn’t look up from the stage, only inclines his head an inch or so. 

“If anything needs changing, consider it done.” He lets you go, and reaches for his coffee, taking a sip. It’s going to be a hard day for him now; he won’t be able to do much more than choreography, but he doesn’t complain. 

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” You promise, and turn away. He nods, and lets himself look down at the script. You return to Tom, and rub the top of his arm to get his attention. Even when he meets your eye, you can tell he’s miles away. 

“C’mon.” You wrap your arm around his shoulder and lead him to the exit. Before you can leave though, he pauses, and turns back to the cast. They’re shifting positions, probably into “No Tomorrow”, considering the amount of them. 

“Ana!” His voice cracks when he calls out, and she looks up, eyes wide. You glance at him, and your heart breaks a little more. Despite everything, he’s still trying to smile. “You were wonderful! 

That’s who he is, you realise, as you lead him through the door. When you’re out of sight, his mask falls away, and he sags against you, crumbling as the tears he’s been holding back spill over. He’s the man who can be falling to bits, but holds it together just long enough to care for someone else. You love him more than words can say. 

He collapses against you in the cab, sobbing silently against your shoulder, but this time you’re ready. You hold him close and whisper sweet nothings into his hair, and pray to whatever God above that it’s enough to help heal your best friend’s broken heart.

**Author's Note:**

> OK so I didn't intend to write for this fandom again so soon but hot damn was I inspired! 
> 
> Inspiration for the Gatsby cast comes from the brilliant "After-Smash" by Sylvie_Featherfoot: I hope it's OK that I borrowed the name for Myrtle's song from your fic! 
> 
> I'm thinking of writing a longer work in this Gatsby setting; would anyone be interested? 
> 
> Seriously, thanks to all the awesome people who have been inspiring my writing lately - I'm looking at you, mrtomlevitt, short--insomniacs, scienceofdeducjohn and always qualquercoisa945! Hope you guys like it :D


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